If Ever

by Angie Stanton

  Tom is pale and shaken. "Wait!"

  She pauses with a knowing smirk.

  "I've got to go with her." There's frustration in his eyes.

  There's fear in the pit of my gut.

  I want to understand, but I don't. What could possibly make him walk away from me? How can everything be normal, then a stranger walks in and suddenly he changes? I muster my voice.

  "Please don't leave," I say the words calmly, but my eyes plead with him.

  "I won't be long." He passes me without a glance and heads for his dresser and pulls out a pair of socks.

  I follow. "What's going on? Who is she?"

  "It's complicated."

  "I can handle complicated."

  Doesn't he see how important it is that he stay and explain?

  He glances at me as if battling with what to do when Barbie yells from the other room, "You coming or not?"

  "Give me a bloody minute," he snaps. "Where the hell are my trainers?" He digs in his closet and comes up with his running shoes.

  He's really going and I can't stop him. My chest tightens. A rush of panic hits. I need him to stay? But how do I convince him? I touch his arm, warm and strong under my trembling hand. "Please don't go."

  Tom finishes tying his shoes and turns to me. His eyes are dark and conflicted. "I need to do this. I'll be back soon." He forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn't convince me. Collecting his phone from the dresser, he heads for the living room and grabs his coat.

  I'm about to lose it. I realize I'm overreacting, but I can't stop myself. A rush of dread consumes me; I clutch his arm. "Don't do this. Don't walk out on me." I say in desperation.

  Barbie waits at the stairs taping her designer boot on the tile. Tom looks from her, to me, and back, as if it's Sophie's choice, then steps toward her. She gives me a smug lip curl.

  Tom raises his hands in defeat. "I have to. I'll explain later." He steps into the hall and disappears.

  Standing in the open doorway I flashback to when I was fourteen and my father ignored my cries and walked away. Hell, he walked away from me again just last week. I can't deny the overwhelming feeling that another door in my life is closing.

  I rush to the window and in a few seconds see them on the sidewalk. Tom's head is down and his hands are sunk in his coat pockets, but Barbie smiles brilliantly and laughs, then links her arm through his as they walk. My heart is in my throat and I choke out a sob.

  38

  The clock on the microwave changes as the minutes drag slowly into hours. I've checked my phone for messages every ten minutes, making sure the volume's on high. Every possibility and scenario torture me as I wait helplessly by the window.

  I envision Tom falling under the gorgeous Barbie's spell complete with her moving in and him telling me to leave. I shake my head to clear away the dismal thoughts. I'm sure I'm wrong. I have to be.

  My head aches, not to mention my neck. I've felt steadily worse all day and I'm not sure if it's because of the deep-seated pain in my heart, or that I'm sick.

  The vision of Tom walking away replays itself in my head all afternoon. I'm all alone again. Just like after my dad left. At least I didn't cry and beg like when I was a kid, but the experience still feels eerily the same, heart-wrenching desolation. My throat is tight and I feel hot. I down a couple painkillers and return to sentry duty at the cold window and continue my vigil. He said he'd be back soon. He promised. But it's been hours.

  After another hour where I watch the outside light change from bright day to the low lights of late afternoon, I can't take this anymore. I've been acting like a doormat and that's not the girl I am.

  I pick up my phone with the cracked screen, my silent companion, pausing to decide what to say in my text to him. I settle on, "I'm really worried. Please call me. Text me. Anything." I hit send and toss the miserable, cracked phone on the couch beside me.

  But there's no response. My phone remains painfully silent, leaving me to contemplate the reality of the situation. He's been gone all day after saying he wouldn't be. I don't matter enough for him to text me back or even a quick phone call? I swallow the truth. My throat burns despite the painkillers.

  Random people walk along the sidewalk below, but no one enters the building. Then a FedEx truck parks and the driver runs up the steps of our building. I’m startled a moment later when the buzzer goes off. I leave my spot by the window and allow him in.

  “Chelsea Barnes?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here please.”

  I scribble my signature and accept the envelope. Who would send me a package? Who other than my closest friends know where I am? The only thing that comes to mind is possibly a job offer or rejection from the Hamilton Literary Agency. I thought the interview went well, but to FedEx a response seems odd.

  I read the return address and freeze.

  It’s my father’s lawyer.

  This can’t be good.

  I tear open the mailer, pull out the paperwork, and scan the letter. I’m confused. It’s about my trust. It’s been cancelled? I’m not to contact my father again? I page through some financial documents.

  This doesn’t make sense. I slow down and read it slowly. My trust has been changed, naming me legally and wholly entitled and responsible for all assets within. What? I read on. My father has removed himself from all guardianship, and he requests I not contact him at anytime at present or in the future.

  I slump onto the couch. He can’t stand the idea of having to deal with me again, so he turned over my inheritance. Or was it guilt after learning what happened? Either way he’s rejecting me for once and for all. That bastard.

  I sit there, stunned, staring at the paperwork and lost in a world where I never seem to matter enough. This shouldn’t bother me so much, since the majority of the memories of my father are of him not caring, and yet it does. And how have I spent my day? Waiting on a man I love to come back to me, yet there’s no word from him.

  What have I missed? Were there signs I didn't see that Tom’s been unhappy? I cringe thinking of how I sent him pics of me flirting with other guys the night of Anna’s bachelorette party. He was mad, understandably.

  I was mad with jealousy. I admit it. He's incredibly talented, handsome, funny, and sweet. Of course everyone else thinks so, but I hate sharing him, and he doesn't seem to mind all the attention. So why am I sitting here like a helpless child waiting for someone to fix the situation? If anyone knows how to take care of themselves, it's me. So why am I doing nothing? Waiting, hoping he'll come back to me? It's like I'm relying on a man for happiness. When did I become that girl?

  The realization slaps me in the face like a wet rag. What the hell have I been doing? I glance around the apartment and my eyes land on the dried up fern in the corner. When I asked about the dead plant, he said to leave it. I thought maybe it was another of his superstitions, but did he keep it because it reminded him of Barbie? I examine it, thick with dust and cobwebs. Was he hoping she'd come back to him all this time? How many ways have I been a fool? Maybe I am his rebound girl and now that she's here, will he go back to her? Is that why he hasn't come home or called?

  Without thinking I grab the plant and hurl it at the wall. The pot shatters with shards of glass shooting across the room. A cloud of dust chokes the air, and crumpled leaves litter the floor.

  I stare at the mess. "Oh God, what have I done?" I'm about to clean it up, when my phone rings. I whip around at the glowing phone emitting the loud ring and lunge for it.

  But it isn't Tom. It's Anna.

  I fight back tears of disappointment. After the fourth ring, I answer. "Hey, Anna," my voice croaks in a husky tone.

  "You sound terrible."

  "I'm coming down with something. My throat's really sore. What's up?"

  "My mother is driving me crazy. You have to save me," she says in an exasperated voice.

  I force a laugh. "Isn't that her job as mother of the bride?"

  "If it is, she
's doing an excellent job. I can't wait for you to get here next month. You're number one job as Maid of Honor is to keep my mother away from me."

  Not having my mom makes Anna's words sting, but Anna lost her dad to the war in Iraq when she was little, so she always gets a pass. "Of course, it'll be a cinch."

  "Distract me from my wedding prep blues. Tell me something fun about life in New York. Tom must be happy to have all of us out of his apartment."

  My sore throat squeezes tight as I picture him walking away. I take a breath before answering. There's no reason to tell her anything right now, but then my eyes land on the shattered planter.

  "Oh, Anna, everything's a mess." I blurt out in my strained voice and drop to the couch.

  "What's wrong? Is he still mad?"

  "No," I fight back a sob. "Some old girlfriend showed up saying she's moving into the extra bedroom. When Tom told her no, she whispered in his ear and he dropped everything to go with her. That was this morning and I haven't heard from him all day."

  "Did you call?"

  "Of course. He didn't pick up, and he's ignored all my texts."

  "Sorry. I just thought maybe..."

  I hug myself and look around the apartment. "I've spent the whole day waiting for him. Wondering. Worrying. I've turned into a pathetic, spineless woman freaking out that I'm losing my man. I hate myself."

  "No. It's natural you'd be worried. What did he say about her?"

  "Nothing. But you know that ugly dead plant in the living room? It was hers and he kept it all this time. What the hell does that mean?"

  "That she's dead to him?"

  I kick a piece of broken glass across the room. "Or that he couldn't bear to let her go?"

  "I'm sure it means nothing. It'll be fine."

  I take my seat by the window. The cold air seeps through. "Anna, it doesn't feel like that. I have this horrible feeling that this is it. Ever since I saw my dad, things have been different."

  "You didn't tell me that."

  "Kind of I did. You saw Tanya in the show. She's been after him from the beginning. And the way girls fall all over him after every performance and say they love him."

  "He's a successful actor. That's how it works."

  Deep down I know this, but right now I can't see past any of it. "Add to that an old flame shows up looking like the cover of Vogue, and off he goes without a backwards glance. I can't handle it."

  "What are you saying?" Concern colors her voice.

  "Maybe I'm the rebound girl and now his true love is back."

  "Stop that. You're talking yourself into the worst-case scenario. Tom's crazy about you. He held your hair while you threw up, for Pete’s sake."

  I burst into tears. "How much time does he need?"

  "Don't cry. You're sick and not thinking straight."

  "What if he comes back with her, or she comes on her own? Oh my God, I totally forgot." I turn to the door in alarm. "She has a key and could walk in at any moment." A new panic consumes me.

  "I doubt she'd do that."

  I rush to the door, double locking it. "There's no chain, just the main lock and the deadbolt, which she can get through."

  "Calm down, you're acting irrational."

  I stare at the doorknob for unwelcome movement. "Anna, I need to go."

  "No, don't."

  "I'll call you later." I hang up the phone with a new mission. Tom hasn't come home or called. For all I know he's hopped in bed with Barbie, and now I realize there's a strong possibility that she'll saunter back through that door to reclaim her territory. Well, I'm not going to stay where I'm not wanted, and I'm not going through the humiliation of Tom asking me to leave.

  I step around the broken glass to the bedroom and pull my suitcases out of the closet. First I scoop all the clothes out of my two dresser drawers and drop them in. At the closet, I send hangers careening to the floor as I yank my clothes off. I toss in my shoes and then spot the pile of jeans on the shelf and grab them, too. My heart is pumping double time with adrenaline as I dump it all in, shoving socks into the shoes and boots as fast as I can. Now that I know I'm leaving, I want out of here as fast as I can.

  I glance outside at the fading daylight. There's no snow, which is good. I don't even know how cold it is. That's when I realize I don't know where I'm going. Hell, where am I going? I really don't want to go to a hotel. Who do I know that would let me crash on their couch? The only people I know are Tom's friends. I scan through my phone and see my past texts. Yes! I know exactly who to call.

  When I have that settled, I grab my shoulder bag and go through the bathroom, sweeping in my cosmetics. I knock over Tom's aftershave and carefully put it back in place, my heart lurching at the thought of never seeing him again. I open the medicine cabinet looking past his various throat remedies for anything of mine. I toss in a bottle of nail polish and some hairspray.

  Back in the bedroom, I put the bag on the bed next to the suitcases. I check the time on my phone. It's almost five o'clock and still no word. A sense of resolve washes over me. I'm not overreacting. He's sending me a message with his act of silence.

  I order an Uber. It will be here in five minutes. Perfect. I toss my phone into my open purse then zip up both suitcases. As I pull the over-packed bag off the bed, it knocks my purse over and half the contents scatter on the floor. Shit.

  Kneeling down, I pick up up the runaway items, tossing them haphazardly into the bag, guesstimating how long it will take me to finish and get downstairs. When everything is picked up, I carry it and the suitcases to the front door.

  With a quick look around, I realize I left the papers from my father’s lawyer on the couch. I grab them and shove them down the side of my purse. One final glance and there’s no sign I was ever here. I was just a guest and nothing more. My heart growing heavy, I slip on my coat. It was a wonderful ride, but as I've learned countless times in life, nothing lasts forever.

  My eyes water as I set his key on the entryway table. I pull my bags into the hall and close the door.

  39

  Today has wracked up to be one the shittiest days on record, and now I have to rehash the whole thing with Chelsea. I let myself into the flat. It's just after five and dark. I flip on the entry light, toss my keys onto the table, and freeze. There's a single key lying there. It's not the key Barbie used, because that one's in my pocket. I pull it out to make sure I'm not hallucinating and set it on the table next to the other one.

  "Chelsea," I call, trying to ignore my unease. Stepping into the living room, my foot crunches on something. I flick on the living room light and see a piece of blue glass crunched beneath my shoe. I notice another shard a few feet away and more until my eyes land on Barbie's dead plant and the remnants of the broken planter. That didn't happen by accident.

  My gut clenches. "Chelsea!" I call and rush to the bedroom. Everything is in order, the bed is made, and yet something is different. When I turn and see the open closet door, my heart drops. Her side is empty. Her suitcases are gone.

  Please Chelsea, don't have done this, but when I go to the dresser and open her drawers, they're bare. Fuck!

  I pound my fist on the dresser, the change jar jumps. Why the hell would she leave, and where did she go? I look for a note, but there's nothing. I certainly didn't think I said anything worth leaving over.

  I plug my phone into the charger by the nightstand. Last night I neglected to recharge it, leaving me with a dying battery. The last call I got was from my agent. He called while I was walking through the park trying to come to terms with the fallout from bombshell Barbie dumped on me.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, I power up and see all the missed texts and messages from Chelsea. Shit. Each one sounds more worried than the last until I hear her wounded voice in the final message. My heart slams against my chest. What the hell happened? I told her I'd be back. Granted it took a helluva lot longer than expected, thanks to Sean's call about a screen test. The director and producer of a movie project I've
been up for made a last minute call and I had no choice. I was painfully unprepared and likely tanked it, and now Chelsea's gone.

  I dial her back, bouncing my knee while it rings. Pick up, pick up, pick up. She doesn't, but I swear I hear her phone. I listen as it rings and follow the sound. It rings near the bed and then stops as the call goes to voice mail. I don't see her phone, so I call again. This time it's louder and I find the phone on the floor between the bedside table and the bed.

  I hold her phone, with the teal-colored case and cracked screen from when she threw it after seeing her dad. She wouldn't have left without it, and I imagine must have dropped it by accident. I try to unlock the security setting. If I can get in, I can figure out who else she called today and hopefully where she went. She couldn't have gone far with all her bags in tow. Unless she went to the airport. Dammit. She might have gone back to Iowa. I hang my head.

  God, how could things get out of hand so fast? Everything was great, or I thought it was. Granted Chelsea wasn't happy watching me on stage with Tanya, but I thought we were past that.

  But Barbie, that was ugly. The woman's a high-heeled python. How I ever got caught up with her, I'll never understand. But why would Chelsea up and leave instead of wait and talk to me?

  My phone pings, and I lunge for it. It's Sean asking how the screen test went. I text him back. So bad that even I wouldn't hire me. Add this one to the 'colossal waste of time file.' I check the time. I'm late for work.

  I bring my charger along with Chelsea's damaged phone. At the theatre I throw myself into work. I'm freakin' out over Chelsea leaving, and the only way to get through the show is to focus and block out the rest of the world. I stay to myself right up until places so I can disappear into my character. It's easy to hide from the problems in life when you're pretending to be someone else, but at intermission reality crashes back as I race to my dressing room to see if she called, or better yet, is waiting for me. But I'm disappointed on both accounts. I hold her cracked phone in my palm, willing it to ring.